I said, "A man escaped? Where is he?"
The vaqueros exchanged looks once again. The man who had not spoken said, "Do you have a paper that proves you are this man Ford?"
I showed them my passport.
The men studied it so intently that I realized they could not read.
"The man who escaped rolled from the helicopter while the others were searching the house. His hands were tied behind his back, and we are the only ones who saw him. He ran along the beach to the corrals, then past the barn. But he stumbled as he climbed a fence. He fell into the pen where we keep the puercos.
"Those animals are wild. We trap them in the forest, and they sometimes kill our dogs."
It was a place, the vaquero said, where even Incendiario would not search.
Puercos. Pigs.
It was Tomlinson.
***
Tomlinson called to me, " If pigs could fly, man, I'd be pasted on some statue right about now!" Trying to be funny, but, instead, he sounded robotic, possibly in shock.
I was searching the pen with my flashlight, seeing black-haired hogs with tusks, belly-deep in slop after the rains, a Stygian nightscape too dark for the light I was using to probe.
But when I called Tomlinson's name, he answered, "Over here!," then moaned something indecipherable before attempting a brave front. If pigs could fly . . .
I used the flashlight to signal the helicopter—Land immediately—then ran around the outside of the pen, sweeping the beam back and forth until I saw a section of Tomlinson's arm and hand, skin white as rice paper, protruding above the pack. He was waving to be seen, either sitting in mud or on his back—I couldn't tell—surrounded, or pinned, by the hogs. I vaulted the fence and landed in muck up to my calves. I was trying to get one of my boots free when Tomlinson yelled,
"Don't show fear! They won't hurt you!"
I got the flashlight up in time to see two pony-sized boars charging me. The clicking of their tusks was the sound of bone on bone.
I wasn't going to risk it. I slogged back to the fence, got a leg over the top rail as one of the hogs grabbed me from below, locking onto a length of shoestring like an attack dog. The shoestring gave way and I fell backward off the fence, landing so hard it knocked the breath out of me. I came up fast, drawing my pistol, holding the flashlight along its barrel in a two-handed grip.
"Don't shoot them. They're my friends!"
Friends?
I wanted to shoot. It was one of the scariest things I'd ever experienced. But I touched the hammer release and used the flashlight instead.
The hogs scattered when they charged me and I could see Tomlinson plainly for the first time. He was sitting in mud, back erect, legs folded into full lotus position, arms thrust outward, fingers and thumbs making circles. Around each wrist were cuffs of frayed rope, his hands no longer tied. He squinted with the pain of the light in his eyes.
"I was afraid you were Praxcedes and came back for me. He was going to burn me tonight." Tomlinson's voice was still monotone. Absurdly, he continued to meditate. Yes, in shock.
I was moving to the other side of the pen, hoping the pigs would follow. I said, "Tomlinson, get out of there. Lourdes is gone. You're safe now."
A lie because he wasn't safe. The pigs were losing interest in me, snorting and gnashing their tusks as they refocused on Tomlinson. I had the gun out again, flashlight laid along the barrel. I touched a red laser dot to the head of the boar that was now chewing my shoestring.
"Praxcedes wanted my face for a surgical transplant. But he found out I'm the wrong blood type. He needs O-positive. Vue's O-negative, but the surgeon told him that could work. Praxcedes wanted you and the president to watch me burn."
"Tell me later. Get out of that pen."
"But there's no danger. You shouldn't have run."
The boar would have been eating my leg right instead of my shoestring if I hadn't run.
I listened to Tomlinson tell me, "When I first fell in, I thought I was a goner, man. Pigs all over me. Know what they went for first? My hams. Funny or what? Instead of eating my butt off, though, they chewed my ropes. I communicated with them, man. They freed me."
I said, "Uh-huh. Regular heroes." I was moving the laser dot between the two boars. "I'm asking you as a favor, climb out of there."
"Okay. But they're gonna miss their new buddy."
I pulled the hammer back as Tomlinson got to his feet, slinging mud from his fingers. His pants had been ripped to tatters. I couldn't tell if he was injured. The pigs, I noticed, continued to root where he'd been sitting, playing tug-of-war with bits of plastic bag.
When he got to the fence, I hurried and helped him onto the ground. Fear is exhausting; shock is debilitating. Tomlinson was so weak, his legs were straw until he got an arm over my shoulder.
The stink was incredible.
"Sam and Rivera knew Lourdes was coming. How, I don't know, unless Sam locked onto my telepathic warning. Which is possible. It made Praxcedes crazy. Crazier. I had time to get my legs free. Man, I bounced out of that helicopter like a bunny."
I said, "You need a bath in disinfectant. Pigs may like you, but bacteria don't play favorites."
"Nope, salt water is best. Salt water cures anything. Whoops!"
I was helping him toward the beach, but he stopped to pat the back of his pants. "I'm missing something, man. Hey!" He searched his front pockets, then tried his back pockets again—they had been ripped away.
"Damn. The pigs got Danson's wallet." He was looking back at the sty. "I was going to return it to his family. It was inhuman what Lourdes did to that man. They tied him to a pole and used a blowtorch—"
I gave him a shake. "I know, I know. Don't talk about it."
Tomlinson took a deep breath, shuddering as he inhaled, then let the breath go slowly. He was teetering near the abyss but fighting it.
"Okay . . . but I have to go back for his wallet—"
"No. I'll get it."
He was still feeling for his pockets. "You're patronizing me, man. I can tell."
"Exactly."
I was watching the helicopter descend toward an open area between the ranch house and the beach. It looked like a spacecraft, with its blinking lights and powerful landing beam. I told Tomlinson that Vue was aboard and in good shape. The news buoyed him. Tomlinson is a resilient man. A lightning rod for positive energy, he describes himself, and maybe that's true. He seemed to rally.
"Doc, if you do go back"—it took me a moment to realize he was talking about Danson's wallet again—"it would be nice to find it for his family. But while you're there? I had some Ziploc baggies rolled up in my back pockets. About two ounces of prime weed."
I shined the light toward the pen where the animals were still rooting among the remains of plastic bags.
"I thought pigs are evil but they're not. They're actually very mellow once you get to know them."
I said, "It's probably because you're a vegetarian."
***
Shana Eaters told me, "I called New York and told them about Walt. Until it's confirmed, though, and his relatives are notified, they'll hold the story. Try, anyway. A lot of TV people aren't going to get any sleep tonight."
Tyner had given her a satellite phone, saying, "Keep it. Bring it along when you visit me in the jungle."
Waters had replied, "Sure—when the Amazon freezes. I can tour your art collection." Sarcastic but taking the phone, anyway. She thought Tyner was kidding when he replied,
"I'd like that. Most people don't consider shrunken heads art."
Waters had spent the next hour on the phone, pacing between the porch and kitchen, where I had sliced a haunch of smoked beef, provided by the vaqueros, and opened canned beans and canned spaghetti I'd found in the cupboards.
Shana had also told New York that she knew where to find Kal Wilson—Panama City.
The amphib needed a lighted municipal airport to land at night. Panama City was the closest, but it wasn't a guess. We foun
d a note inside the ranch house that was crumpled and partially burned. Presumably, it had been tacked to the door when Lourdes arrived.
If you came for my head, you will find it at the Panama Canal Administration Building, noon, tomorrow. Kal Wilson.
Wilson knew a killer was coming. How?
Vue had the best explanation. The president wasn't forewarned telepathically, he was tipped-off telegraphically. Telegraph operators develop a unique style on the key. "Fist" is the term, Vue said.
He and the president had been practicing Morse code together for months.
Wilson may not have known Lourdes was coming, but he knew it wasn't Vue who sent the message.
What Waters didn't share with New York were the specifics. Tomorrow's Independence Week celebration was a huge story and she wanted to be the only network reporter broadcasting live.
"It's what Walt would have done," she told me. We were walking toward the Pacific, where rollers conveyed starlight before collapsing onto sand. "The network's going to send a crew from Miami first thing. Just in case, we're also arranging for a local crew to be standing by."
***
It was 2:30 a.m., and I'd left the hammock I had commandeered as a bed, too restless to sleep. What I really wanted to do was go for a swim. But I had surprised Waters, who was standing on the porch smoking a joint. She wanted to walk with me.
When she offered the joint, I shook my head and asked, "Did Tomlinson give you that?" I'd thrown his clothes away while he was swimming and couldn't imagine where he'd hidden it.
"No. I gave him one. Two joints, actually. His day was even worse than mine, and I figured he could use it. I'll buy more when we get to the city."
I was tempted to tell her to keep away from the pigs but said,
"Very kind of you."
"I like him. And he was such a mess."
True, but cleaner now. I had searched the barn until I found veterinary-grade disinfectant soap and a bottle of Betadine. I poured half of each into a bath and told him to go soak. He walked into the bathroom carrying a bucket of ice, a bottle of tequila, and three limes.
"I'm going to attack the bastards from the inside, too," he said. Meaning bacteria. He was weak but getting better.
As we walked, Waters talked about Key West and Danson. Neither of them recognized the president, she told me.
"I've been in so many hotels, staff people become shapes without faces," she said. "Have you ever run into a friend at some place totally unexpected? They look so different until we make the association. He reminded Walt of an actor—see what I mean?"
It wasn't until an hour later when she discovered her recorder missing and confronted Danson that they made the connection.
After that, they had stood toe-to-toe, arguing, blaming each other for blowing the biggest story of the year.
"It was so damn funny the way we battled back and forth," Waters said, "trying to beat each other. It's true that I've wanted his job for years. But I'm still going to miss him."
I wondered. Waters spoke with warmth and regret. But I couldn't be sure if she was sincere or trying to manipulate my opinion of her. She wanted to interview me about Wilson—she'd mentioned it in an offhand way, as if I'd already agreed. Maybe I had, in her mind. This was a woman expert at leverage and she'd been within viewing distance when I shot three men.
But the closest she came to hinting at it—if she was hinting—was when she stopped, looked at me, and said, "In Key West, I knew you were no maintenance man. Even drunk as he was, Walt knew it, too. Who're you with, the CIA? I'd say the Secret Service, but they're not allowed to . . . do the sorts of things you seem good at."
I said, "I'm a biologist. I was hired as a consultant on the new canal. I was with the president because I'm familiar with the area."
She chuckled, shaking her head. "That's insulting. Do you really expect me to believe that?"
I said, "It happens to be true, but you're right—it's not the whole truth." She was not expecting me to add, "I should know better. Some of the things I heard on your recorder are memorable. I apologize for underestimating you. It won't happen again."
The woman cleared her throat. "You listened?"
"Only portions. It was a long flight."
"Where is my recorder?"
"I have it. I'll return it—tomorrow. When President Wilson says it's okay."
Waters nodded, letting it sink in. "Did Tomlinson steal it? Or did you?"
I nearly smiled. Wilson had said that no one expects a former U.S. president to break the law. "What does it matter?"
"I thought you might admit it. Tomlinson's too religious and Kal Wilson wouldn't have the nerve. You're different, Ford. Nerdy and industrious—like setting out food for everyone. But underneath, you are one very damn cold customer."
The woman stopped, relit the joint. Inhaled a couple of times, holding it like a cigarette, then offered it to me once again. When I refused, she said, "Boy Scout, huh? I don't think so. You and I have a hell of a lot more in common than either one of us is likely to admit. Scary, huh?"
She turned her back to me and began doing something—unbuttoning her blouse, I realized. I replied,
"When you put it that way, yes."
"I can't imagine what you think of me after hearing what's on that recorder."
"Don't worry. I averted my ears when it got personal."
She laughed. "Like a boy who covers his eyes when a western gets too romantic."
"I didn't hear any romantic parts."
"That's because I'm a realist, not a romantic." Waters slid her blouse off, unsnapped her bra. With the practiced immodesty of an actress, she tossed them above the tide line. Then, using fingers to brush her hair back, she turned to face me. Curtis Tyner and Juan Rivera shared the same fixation, and their interest was not unwarranted.
"Ford? You should let your hair down. Because I'm getting my hair wet. After the day we've had, we both deserve it."
The woman shimmied out of her slacks and panties and I watched her walk into the sea.
25
Use a predator to lure a predator . . .Kal Wilson had said it about a hammerhead shark that was
shadowing a barracuda. Cayo Costa, five days ago.
It seemed like five weeks ago. I should've felt tired after so little sleep and so much travel. Instead, I felt energized.
I am not fanciful when it comes to speculating about emotion attributed to creatures not of my species. When people say their cat, or dog, "believes he's human," I attempt to smile as I edge away. But I have speculated—fancifully, I admit—that the single-minded focus of a shark might be the purest sensation in nature.
That's how I felt. Single-minded. I was sitting high in a tree, back braced, sniper rifle in my hands, as I watched political luminaries assemble for Panama City's Independence Week ceremony.
It was 11:05 a.m., Wednesday, November 5th. I was more than a hundred yards away. Even with my glasses clean, the crowd was a blur—people socializing and finding their seats on a stage decorated with bunting and flags. But when I pressed my eye to the rifle's scope, individual faces came into focus, filling the lens, as I moved crosshairs from person to person searching for the assassin that Kal Wilson told me would be there.
He was not the only one expecting trouble. Security around the stage was intense. Panama's special assignment cops wear black. There were dozens moving through the crowd, using bomb-sniffing dogs and metal detectors at the two public entrances cordoned off by rope.
Political ceremonies attract political activists. There were several protests under way: clusters of people carrying signs, already chanting slogans. Elections were approaching. U.S. economic sanctions against Panama was a volatile subject, and so was Indonesia Shipping & Petroleum's control of the canal.
Some despised the yanquis. Some despised the IS&P. Discontent on other issues was scattered throughout. There were many issues because Panama is like no other country in the region.
Panama City was part o
f Colombia until the U.S. dug the Canal, then protected its investment by backing independence. They named the new nation "Panama." Panama was an invention of the Canal Zone, and the canal's construction spawned a population assembled from cultures around the world. It was not considered a Latin country until the 1950s for the simple reason that its citizenry was so varied.
Kal Wilson had referred to Panama as an Ark. He had been stationed at nearby Albrook Air Base and he knew the people and the country well. Once again, he was right. The Apocalypse could start here.
I paid close attention to a large and vocal group of protesters to the north. Signs they carried identified them as members of Jemaah Islamiyah, an Indonesian faction devoted to creating an Islamic state in Southeast Asia and joining Middle Eastern Muslims in Holy War. Ramadan had just ended, so there was a big turnout. Many wore traditional Muslim dress, loose robes, shawls, kufis. Women kept their faces covered with scarves, or burqas—a full-face veil with only a slit showing the eyes and bridge of the nose.
I moved the rifle's crosshairs from face to face. Praxcedes Lourdes was a theatrical man. It was a costume he might enjoy.
I checked my watch: 11:10 a.m.
I expected to come face-to-face with Lourdes very soon.
***
We had arrived in Panama city at dawn and I had neither seen nor spoken to Kal Wilson. An hour after landing, I left Vue and Tomlinson in the lobby of the El Panama Hotel so it was possible they had made contact. I didn't know. There was no reason for me to speculate.
Wilson had given me simple but specific verbal instructions plus the sealed envelope. I had not opened the envelope until I was alone in the suite we'd rented. The president's note included a final, unexpected order. I felt numb as I read, then reread it. There was no mistaking what he wanted me to do. Question was, could I?
When I had read the card twice, I burned it and flushed the ashes.
I knew what was expected of me, even though I still didn't know what Kal Wilson had planned. The president shared information only on a need-to-know basis. My only clue was what he had said on Cayo Costa: Use a predator to lure a predator . . .But who was the barracuda? Who was the shark?
Hunter's Moon - Randy Wayne White Page 22